Dukes Of Hazards Quotes

The Duke nodded to them all, and walked out. As he left, Leo started to speak. Louisa told him to shut up again.

He had a nice mouth, well-shaped in an unobtrusive way, with a gentle, almost wistful upward turn to it as though it was his habit both to smile and to hope. Daizell liked people who smiled and hoped because he did so himself. Sometimes those were the only things he could do.

Daizell Charnage has been unfairly maligned, and I will not have it. If he has my countenance – and he does, because he is my friend – then any man who chooses to abuse or to cut him on his father’s account offends Severn. I shall make that known, and we will see how the sheep of the Polite World behave when the dog barks!

It’s not even that you aren’t exciting yourself, it’s just that you do it so quietly. You quietly calm a set of panicking horses, and quietly let yourself out when you’re kidnapped, and quietly scheme to bamboozle parsons. Good God, Cass, you’re like a cool drink on a hot day. Anyone who tells you otherwise isn’t paying attention.

By God, I will not have this! Constant dictation of what the Duke may do, and how, and who with – I will decide what I do, and make my friends as I please! Who the devil are you to tell me otherwise? If people don’t like my choice of friends, they may set themselves outside my acquaintance, and if the family don’t like my guests in my house, they are not obliged to live there! I will have no more of this accursed trammelling. I am a grown man, and the obligations and duties of my station do not extend to having my friends selected for me! How dare you tell me who I may care for?

Sophie put us to rights,” Westhaven said, “and my guess is we’ve never thanked her. We’ve gone off and gotten married, started our families, and neglected to thank someone who contributed so generously to our happiness. We’re thanking Sophie now by not calling you out. If she wants you, Charpentier, then we’ll truss you up with a Christmas ribbon and leave you staked out under the nearest kissing bough.” “And if she doesn’t want me?” “She wanted you for something,” Lord Val said dryly. “I’d hazard it isn’t just because you’re a dab hand at a dirty nappy, either.” Vim didn’t want to lie to these men, but neither was he about to admit he suspected Sophie Windham, for reasons he could not fathom, had gifted him with her virginity then sent him on his way. “She lent you that great hulking beast of hers,” St. Just pointed out. “She’s very protective of those she cares for, and yet she let you go larking off with her darling precious—never to be seen again? I would not be so sure.” Vim had wondered about the same thing, except if a woman as practical as Sophie were determined to be shut of a man, she might just lend the sorry bastard a horse, mightn’t she? “I proposed to my wife, what was it, six times?” Westhaven said. “At least seven,” Lord Val supplied. St. Just sent Westhaven a wry smile. “I lost count after the second hangover, but Westhaven is the determined sort. He proposed a lot. It was pathetic.” “Quite.” Westhaven’s ears might have turned just a bit red. “I had to say some magic words, cry on Papa’s shoulder, come bearing gifts, and I don’t know what all before Anna took pity on me, but I do know this: Sophie has been out for almost ten years, and she has never, not once, given a man a second look. You come along with that dratted baby, and she looks at you like a woman smitten.” “He’s a wonderful baby.” “He’s a baby,” Westhaven said, loading three words with worlds of meaning. “Sophie is attached to the infant, but it’s you she’s smitten with.” All three of Sophie’s brothers speared him with a look, a look that expected him to do something. “If you gentleman will excuse me, I’m going to offer to take the baby tonight for Sophie. She’s been the one to get up and down with him all night for better than a week, and that is wearing on a woman.” He

Two nights after the Chaworth ball, Gabriel practiced at the billiards table in the private apartments above Jenner's. The luxurious rooms, which had once been occupied by his parents in the earlier days of their marriage, were now reserved for the convenience of the Challon family. Raphael, one of his younger brothers, usually lived at the club, but at the moment was on an overseas trip to America. He'd gone to source and purchase a large quantity of dressed pine timber on behalf of a Challon-owned railway construction company. American pine, for its toughness and elasticity, was used as transom ties for railways, and it was in high demand now that native British timber was in scarce supply. The club wasn't the same without Raphael's carefree presence, but spending time alone here was better than the well-ordered quietness of his terrace at Queen's Gate. Gabriel relished the comfortably masculine atmosphere, spiced with scents of expensive liquor, pipe smoke, oiled Morocco leather upholstery, and the acrid pungency of green baize cloth. The fragrance never failed to remind him of the occasions in his youth when he had accompanied his father to the club. For years, the duke had gone almost weekly to Jenner's to meet with managers and look over the account ledgers. His wife Evie had inherited it from her father, Ivo Jenner, a former professional boxer. The club was an inexhaustible financial engine, its vast profits having enabled the duke to improve his agricultural estates and properties, and accumulate a sprawling empire of investments. Gaming was against the law, of course, but half of Parliament were members of Jenner's, which had made it virtually exempt from prosecution. Visiting Jenner's with his father had been exciting for a sheltered boy. There had always been new things to see and learn, and the men Gabriel had encountered were very different from the respectable servants and tenants on the estate. The patrons and staff at the club had used coarse language and told bawdy jokes, and taught him card tricks and flourishes. Sometimes Gabriel had perched on a tall stool at a circular hazard table to watch high-stakes play, with his father's arm draped casually across his shoulders. Tucked safely against the duke's side, Gabriel had seen men win or lose entire fortunes in a single night, all on the tumble of dice.

I roll my eyes. “She looks like she could be on the Dukes of Hazard. Don't tell me I don’t know what it is.” Lucas

Hello, ladies, I’m your uncle Devlin. Has Westhaven scared you witless with his fuming and fretting?” This fellow looked to be great fun, with a nice smile and kind green eyes. “Mama and Papa didn’t say anything about getting uncles for Christmas,” Amanda observed, but she was smiling back at the big uncle. The biggest uncle—they were all as tall as Papa. “Well, that’s because we’re a surprise,” the other dark-haired fellow said. “I’m your uncle Valentine, and we have an entire gaggle of aunties waiting out in the coach to spoil you rotten. Westhaven here is just out of sorts because Father Christmas gave him a headache for being naughty yesterday.” “I was not naughty.” The other two uncles thought this was quite funny, judging by their smiles. “There’s your problem,” said Uncle Devlin. “I’m thinking it’s a fine day for a pair of ladies to join their aunts for a ride in the traveling coach.” Uncle Gayle—it didn’t seem fair to call him by the same name as Fleur’s puppy—appeared to consider this. “For what purpose?” “To keep the peace. Emmie and I never haul out our big guns around the children,” said Uncle Devlin, which made no sense. “Do you like to play soldiers?” Fleur asked. Amanda appeared intrigued by the notion. She was forever galloping up hills and charging down banisters in pursuit of the French. Uncle Devlin’s brows knitted—he had wonderful dark eyebrows, much like Papa’s. “As a matter of fact, on occasion, if I’ve been an exceedingly good fellow, my daughter lets me join her in a game of soldiers.” “I’m not exactly unfamiliar with the business myself,” said Uncle Valentine. “I excel at the lightning charge and have been known to take even the occasional doll prisoner.” “Missus Wolverhampton would not like being a prisoner,” Fleur said, though Uncle Valentine was teasing—wasn’t he?” “Perhaps you gentlemen can arrange an assignation to play soldiers with our nieces on some other day,” Westhaven said. He sounded like his teeth hurt, which Fleur knew might be from the seasonal hazard of eating too much candy. “You can play too,” Fleur allowed, because it was Christmas, and one ought to be kind to uncles who strayed into one’s nursery. “We’ll let you be Wellington,” Amanda added, getting into the spirit of the day. “Which leaves me to be Blucher’s mercenaries,” Uncle Devlin said, “saving the day as usual.” “Oh, that’s brilliant.” Uncle Valentine wasn’t smiling now. “Leave your baby brother to be the infernal French again, will you? See if I write a waltz for your daughter’s come out, St. Just.” Uncle Gayle wasn’t frowning quite so mightily. In fact, he looked like he wanted to smile but was too grown-up to allow it. “Perhaps you ladies will gather up a few soldiers and fetch a doll or two. We’re going on a short journey to find your mama and papa, so we can all share Christmas with them.” Fleur noticed his slip, and clearly, Amanda had too—but it was the same slip Amanda had made earlier, and one Fleur was perfectly happy to let everybody make. Uncle Gayle had referred to their papa’s new wife not as their stepmama, but as their mama. What a fine thing that would be, if for Christmas they got a mama again for really and truly. Amanda fetched their dolls, Fleur grabbed their favorite storybook, and the uncles herded them from the nursery, all three grown men arguing about whose turn it was to be the blasted French. ***

He told me he offered for you. Were you tempted?” Emmie gave an unladylike snort. “Of course I was tempted. Hadrian is an attractive man, inside and out, but he was asking out of loneliness and pity—maybe—and the knowledge that if a vicar is to indulge in carnal pleasures, it can be only with a wife or with a bothersome degree of discretion.” “So you declined because it wasn’t a love match?” He had to smile at that thought. “Not just that.” Emmie wasn’t smiling. “Hadrian is his brother’s heir, and the viscount does not enjoy good health. He looks to Hadrian to secure the succession.” “You are not the stuff a viscountess is made of?” the earl hazarded. “I absolutely do not buy that, Emmie, and I’ve met a sight more viscountesses than you have.

It’s not false modesty. I know I’m not much to look at. I can’t complain, given everything else I was born with.’ ‘You’re everything to look at. The problem is that people don’t look,’ Daizell said. ‘They don’t see. Anyone who actually looked at you would see you’re beautiful, and if they let your dukedom get in the way of that, they’re a fool.

And he wished he wasn’t so sleepy, because here in the dark with Daizell next to him, he didn’t want to fall asleep. He felt they could talk long into the night, if only he could stay awake. But consciousness was passing from his control, and his eyes fluttered shut to the sound of Daizell’s quiet breath.

He wanted Cassian as close as he could be, because when he was close the world was a warm, soothing, easy place. He wanted to show his enchanting but oddly uncertain bard that he was entirely enchanted.

You are committing an egregious abuse of power and I will not tolerate it. You are unfit for your post, sir, and your son is unfit for the company of gentlemen. I will make both of those things known across England.

His pie appeared to contain ham, apples, onions, and cheese. It tasted like being somebody else.

I want you to touch me while I sleep.’ He said it in a breath. ‘I want you to – to take whatever liberties you care to, because you can, and to be trying not to wake me so you can carry on doing as you please.

There was only one bed.

Kissing, open-mouthed and desperate and gleeful, under the night sky, while escaping kidnap. Cassian had never felt less like a duke, or more like himself.

They were everything. Daizell needed people, needed friendship and talk and laughter and touch. Solitude drained his soul, leaving him bleak and joyless; companionship had him fizzing with energy.

I want you to touch me while I sleep.’ He said it in a breath. ‘I want you to – to take whatever liberties you care to, because you can, and to be trying not to wake me

Um. I don’t much like receiving either, but if that’s something you want, I could try? I imagine it would be better with you.’ And that was another chunk of Daizell’s foolish heart broken off and floating away, like a melting icicle.

This time, he woke up with Cassian not just in his arms, but between his legs.

Daizell looked at him, so earnest, so determined to get it right, and wondered how happiness could make your heart hurt.

People will happily repeat stories they know to be lies as long as they are entertaining.

I see you are a connoisseur of elevating literature,’ Daizell said. ‘Have you read the latest Mrs Swann?’ Cassian had not, but he had a deal to say about the Waverley author, whose work Daizell also enjoyed, and they talked and argued and laughed as the cart jogged along in the evening sunshine.

I love you,’ Daizell remarked into his neck. ‘I love your kindness, and I love that you love me, and I particularly love that you want me to do that to you.’ Cassian considered before replying, in a way that might have seemed offputting if you didn’t know him. ‘I love how you sparkle. Sparkle and shine. And I love that you make it so easy for me to be me. And I particularly love that you’re happy to do those things to me.’ ‘It’s highly convenient we found each other, really.’ ‘Sometimes one can believe in a well-ordered universe,’ Cassian agreed, and snuggled back against him, sweaty, sticky, and entirely perfect.

Daizell considered that. He nodded slowly. Then he punched the young man with everything he had, and was delighted to feel his nose break.

Do you not think independence is a virtue?’ ‘Overrated,’ Daizell said. ‘One should be able to do things for oneself, but the world would surely be a better place if we did more for one another.

I – beg – your – pardon,’ the Duke said, and he put all the duke he had into each stony word.

Sir James’s expression was poisonous but he didn’t reply. Hartlebury waited a few seconds, then snorted. ‘Didn’t think so. Keep it that way. Spiteful prick,’ he added, not really under his breath at all. ‘Evening, Charnage. Not seen you in a while.

Swinging your duke around?’ ‘Hitting them with it.

Imagining the future recruits the same brain pathways as remembering the past. And it turns out that remembering the future is a better way to plan for it. From the vantage point of the present, it’s hard to see past the next step. We end up over-planning for addressing problems we have right now. Implicit in that approach is the assumption that conditions will remain the same, facts won’t change, and the paradigm will remain stable. The world changes too fast to assume that approach is generally valid. Samuel Arbesman’s The Half-Life of Facts makes a book-length case for the hazards of assuming the future is going to be like the present.

She was badly hurt once, but that doesn’t mean she won’t find happiness again